George, when he left the room in which he had insulted the lawyer, went immediately across to the parlour in which his aunt and sister were sitting. “Kate,” said he, “put on your hat and come and walk with me. That business is over.” Kate’s hat and shawl were in the room, and they were out of the house together within a minute.

They walked down the carriage-road, through the desolate, untended grounds, to the gate, before either of them spoke a word. Kate was waiting for George to tell her of the will, but did not dare to ask any question. George intended to tell her of the will, but was not disposed to do so without some preparation. It was a thing not to be spoken of open-mouthed, as a piece of ordinary news. “Which way shall we go?” said Kate, as soon as they had passed through the old rickety gate, which swang at the entrance of the place. “Up across the fell,” said George; “the day is fine, and I want to get away from my uncle for a time.” She turned round, therefore, outside the hill of firs, and led the way back to the beacon wood through which she and Alice had walked across to Hawes Water upon a memorable occasion. They had reached the top of the beacon hill, and were out upon the Fell, before George had begun his story. Kate was half beside herself with curiosity, but still she was afraid to ask. “Well,” said George, when they paused a moment as they stepped over a plank that crossed the boundary ditch of the wood; “don’t you want to know what that dear old man has done for you?” Then he looked into her face very steadfastly. “But perhaps you know already,” he added. He had come out determined not to quarrel with his sister. He had resolved, in that moment of thought which had been allowed to him, that his best hope for the present required that he should keep himself on good terms with her, at any rate till he had settled what line of conduct he would pursue. But he was, in truth, so sore with anger and disappointment — he had become so nearly mad with that continued, unappeased wrath in which he now indulged against all the world, that he could not refrain himself from bitter words. He was as one driven by the Furies, and was no longer able to control them in their driving of him.

“I know nothing of it,” said Kate. “Had I known I should have told you. Your question is unjust to me.”

“I am beginning to doubt,” said he, “whether a man can be safe in trusting any one. My grandfather has done his best to rob me of the property altogether.”

“I told you that I feared he would do so.”

“And he has made you his heir.”

“Me?”

“Yes; you.”

“He told me distinctly that he would not do that.”

“But he has, I tell you.”

“Then, George, I shall do that which I told him I should do in the event of his making such a will; for he asked me the question. I told him I should restore the estate to you, and upon that he swore that he would not leave it to me.”

“And what a fool you were,” said he, stopping her in the pathway. “What an ass! Why did you tell him that? You knew that he would not, on that account, do justice to me.”

“He asked me, George.”

“Psha! now you have ruined me, and you might have saved me.”

“But I will save you still, if he has left the estate to me. I do not desire to take it from you. As God in heaven sees me, I have never ceased to endeavour to protect your interests here at Vavasor. I will sign anything necessary to make over my right in the property to you.” Then they walked on over the Fell for some minutes without speaking. They were still on the same path — that path which Kate and Alice had taken in the winter — and now poor Kate could not but think of all that she had said that day on George’s behalf — how had she mingled truth and falsehood in her efforts to raise her brother’s character in her cousin’s eyes! It had all been done in vain. At this very moment of her own trouble Kate thought of John Grey, and repented of what she had done. Her hopes in that direction were altogether blasted. She knew that her brother had ill-treated Alice, and that she must tell him so if Alice’s name were mentioned between them. She could no longer worship her brother, and hold herself at his command in all things. But, as regarded the property to which he was naturally the heir, if any act of hers could give it to him, that act would be done. “If the will is as you say, George, I will make over my right to you.”

“You can make over nothing,” he answered. “The old robber has been too cunning for that; he has left it all in the hands of my uncle John. D— him. D— them both.”

“George! George! He is dead now.”

“Dead; of course he is dead. What of that? I wish he had been dead ten years ago — or twenty. Do you suppose I am to forgive him because he is dead? I’ll heap his grave with curses, if that can be of avail to punish him.”

“You can only punish the living that way.”

“And I will punish them — but not by cursing them. My uncle John shall have such a life of it for the next year or two that he shall bitterly regret the hour in which he has stepped between me and my rights.”

“I do not believe that he has done so.”

“Not done so! What was he down here for at Christmas? Do you pretend to think that that make-believe will was concocted without his knowledge?”

“I’m sure that he knew nothing of it. I don’t think my grandfather’s mind was made up a week before he died.”

“You’ll have to swear that, remember, in a court. I’m not going to let the matter rest, I can tell you. You’ll have to prove that. How long is it since he asked you what you would do with the estate if he left it to you?”

Kate thought for a moment before she answered. “It was only two days before he died, if I remember rightly.”

“But you must remember rightly. You’ll have to swear to it. And now tell me this honestly; do you believe, in your heart, that he was in a condition fit for making a will?”

“I advised him not to make it.”

“Why? Why? What reason did you give?”

“I told him that I thought no man should alter family arrangements when he was so ill.”

“Exactly. You told him that. And what did he say?”

“He was very angry, and made me send for Mr Gogram.”

“Now, Kate, think a little before you answer me again. If ever you are to do me a good turn, you must do it now. And, remember this, I don’t at all want to take anything away from you. Whatever you think is fair you shall have.”

He was a fool not to have known her better than that.

“I want nothing,” she said, stopping and stamping with her foot upon the crushed heather. “George, you don’t understand what it is to be honest.”

He smiled — with a slight provoking smile that passed very rapidly from his face. The meaning of the smile was to be read, had Kate been calm enough to read it. “I can’t say that I do.” That was the meaning of the smile. “Well, never mind about that,” said he; “you advised my grandfather not to make his will — thinking, no doubt, that his mind was not clear enough?”

She paused a moment again before she answered him. “His mind was clear,” she said; “but I thought that he should not trust his judgment while he was so weak.”

“Look here, Kate; I do believe that you at any rate have no mind to assist in this robbery. That it is a robbery you can’t have any doubt. I said he had left the estate to you. That is not what he has done. He has left the estate to my uncle John.”

“Why tell me, then, what was untrue?”

“Are you disappointed?”

“Of course I am; Uncle John won’t give it you. George, I don’t understand you; I don’t, indeed.”

“Never mind about that, but listen to me. The estate is left in the hands of John Vavasor; but he has left you five hundred a year out of it till somebody is twenty-five years old who is not yet born, and probably never will be born. The will itself shows the old fool to have been mad.”

“He was no more mad than you are, George.”

“Listen to me, I tell you. I don’t mean that he was a raging maniac. Now, you had advised him not to make any new will because you thought he was not in a fit condition?”

“Yes; I did.”

“You can swear to that?”

“I hope I may not be called on to do so. I hope there may be no swearing about it. But if I am asked the question I must swear it.”

“Exactly. Now listen till you understand what it is I mean. That will, if it stands, gives all the power over the estate to John Vavasor. It renders you quite powerless as regards any help or assistance that you might be disposed to give me. But, nevertheless, your interest under the will is greater than his — or than that of any one else — for your son would inherit if I have none. Do you understand?”

“Yes; I think so.”

“And your testimony as to the invalidity of the will would be conclusive against all the world.”

“I would say in a court what I have told you, if that will do any good.”

“It will not be enough. Look here, Kate; you must be steadfast here; everything depends on you. How often have you told me that you will stick to me throughout life? Now you will be tried.”

Kate felt that her repugnance towards him — towards all that he was doing and wished her to do — was growing stronger within her at every word he spoke. She was becoming gradually aware that he desired from her something which she could not and would not do, and she was aware also that in refusing him she would have to encounter him in all his wrath. She set her teeth firmly together, and clenched her little fist. If a fight was necessary, she would fight with him. As he looked at her closely with his sinister eyes, her love towards him was almost turned to hatred.

“Now you will be tried,” he said again. “You advised him not to make the will because you thought his intellect was impaired!”

“No; not so.”

“Stop, Kate, stop. If you will think of it, it was so. What is the meaning of his judgment being weak?”

“I didn’t say his judgment was weak.”

“But that was w............